~

a child's hand print,
and under
a color-filled
paint-by-number;
it bears
the usual adornments,
photographed moments,
magnetic attractions
from faraway places;
but my heart
it no longer begs
to leave this place,
stuck in time,
i am...
in space.
my mind can't conceive
this loss i can't see.
throw back these covers,
you will quickly discover
an empty dark hole,
where once stood a soul.
and now our
'frigerator's adornments
point outward no longer,
covered instead
with daily reminders
that point to this inward;
its gnawing
and clawing
this scratching
and hoping
and just this one,
an unanswered,
open invitation...
"please come home
for dinner,
just once more,
son!"
a candle is lit,
in your place
no one sits,
only this
empty plate,

awaits...

~

*post script.

i miss you, son!

in the river that is grief,
the current is not constant
but rather changes,
sometimes often,
daily even,
at other times
a low sense
of numbness pervades.  
what is it of fall
that increases its flow?
it is not related to
any calendar date,
more a change in flow
with the season  
such is grief.